The Muse
by Zsra187
Summary: 'You'll be glad of the hateful things I do someday.' A series of drabbles exploring the relationship between Sansa Stark and the Hound.


**The Muse  
**

* * *

**Angst**

He watches her slip the knife into the folds of her dress at dinner, says nothing as he walks her back to her bedchamber, still nothing when she bids him a quiet goodnight, enters her room and shuts the door. He waits all of three seconds before marching in after her, snatching her wrist in an iron grip and pulling her close, furiously snarling in her ear, 'Give it to me, girl.'

He sees a momentary flash of panic in her eyes; she squirms against his hold and opens her mouth as if to protest, so he shoves his hand deep into the hidden pocket of her skirts and pulls it out himself, leaving her in a crumpled heap of tears as he strides out of the door.

* * *

**AU**

Her father's hands are freezing to touch, yet his brow is warm and slicked with sweat. Knowing that he is in the grip of a fever and will most certainly die if left in the cell much longer, Sansa turns to the man, the great, hulking, _terrifying _man, towering in the doorway, with his burned face and angry eyes, and knows she only has one choice.

'Take me instead.'

_(Beauty and the Beast AU)_

* * *

**Crossover**

The black widow, the entire court was calling her, although she did not have the look about her; in fact, there was a definite sweetness to her features, a certain, shall I say… aura of loveliness that belied the nickname, although such beauty was in sharp contrast to the heavily armoured bodyguard at her shoulder. Given my own condition, I consider it unbecoming to speak rudely of the physical appearance of others, but I do swear by God, I had never seen a man so horrifically ugly, and by the look on Barak's face, neither had he.

I turned my attention back to the matter at hand. 'Lady Stark, my name is Matthew Shardlake, and I am here to enquire after the death of your Lord husband…'

_(Crossover with C. J. Sansom's Matthew Shardlake series)_

* * *

**Death**

As he watched Arya Stark ride off into the distance, he could feel his life's blood ebbing away with every slow beat of his heart, an entire lifetime's worth of rage and regret seeping into the soil around him, staining the earth a dark, rusty red.

* * *

**Episode-related**

_('The girl is right. What a man sows on his name day, he reaps all year.')_

Joffrey's eyes are narrowed: it's quite obvious that he doesn't believe her. She swallows, an involuntary action that she's certain will arouse his suspicions even further; her pulse throbs madly in her throat, her stomach churns and she feels as though she might vomit any moment.

Then she hears a voice, a corroboration of her lie, loud and clear amongst the silence; her eyes meet his and she thinks maybe, just maybe, she isn't completely surrounded by lions.

* * *

**First-time**

It wasn't like she had imagined it at all; his breath stank of wine and she was far from comfortable on the cold stone floor, he didn't kiss her tenderly, or whisper sweet nothings into her ear. It was only a rough, fumbled five minutes, beginning with a sharp sting of pain as he took her maidenhead, and ending with an even greater sting of disappointment when he hauled himself to his feet and left, out of the room and out of her life once again.

* * *

**Fluff**

It's an ugly, pink, wrinkled thing; he stands, slightly dazed and not knowing what to do, whilst Sansa lies bloodied and exhausted, and the midwife places the tiny bundle in his arms, all clenched fists and squalling.

'Congratulations, Ser. You have a son.'

* * *

**Humour**

He wakes on the fifth morning to find her missing from his side; a quick glance around and he finds her, slowly, cautiously, closing in on Stranger, a handful of grass in her fist. It's almost enough to make him smile, and his mouth twitches when he hears Stranger snort dangerously, and the little bird give a high pitched squeal.

* * *

**Hurt/Comfort**

_'Well, what do you think dog? Should I have her now? Or save her for later, until after I've conquered the Northern army? Then I'll be able to fuck her still covered in her brothers blood and shit stains.'_

She sobbed even harder at that, blood running from the cut on her cheek down into the corner of her mouth, the sharp metallic tang biting into her tongue; this was it, this was the end, he was so angry, he was going to rape her, then kill her and have Ser Ilyn cut off her head, she was sure of it. Only the next sound in the deathly silent room came not from Joffrey, not from her, but from the Hound himself, who looked down on her with blazing eyes, fist clenched and knuckles white around his sword.

'I'd save her for later if I were you. Nothing worse than fucking a crying woman.'

* * *

**Smut**

Her ears pricked up when she heard the sound coming from the stone passageway; hushed, intimate whispers, followed by a long, low _groan._The young maid did not need to peek around the corner to confirm her suspicions, although she did anyway, giving a smile at the vision before her: two bodies pressed against the wall; two dainty, ladylike hands stroking firmly in the man's breeches; two sets of lips meeting with eager and unmeasured passion.

She watched for just a second before turning away; their meetings were too few and far between, she knew. Let them have their moment.

* * *

**UST**

He doesn't know what, but some impulse makes him reach over and graze a dirty hand across her round, girlish cheek; she blinks, and a tiny, glistening tear falls, _splash_, into the palm of his hand. She gives a soft gasp, her eyes flicker, and he knows what she's thinking; a_n honourable man would wipe it away on his breeches_. Instead, he lifts his hand to his mouth and licks it.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading, reviews are _greatly _appreciated!


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